Singular
by Wizzelf
Summary: His touch is like threads; wrapping and tangling, printing against the soft flesh and melding into it. His fingers twist her hair playfully before trailing, smoothing over and diving past the peaks of her shoulders. There is no return to peace for her, not when he's finally arrived, and the hour is late.


His touch is like threads; wrapping and tangling, printing against the soft flesh and melding into it. His fingers twist her hair playfully before trailing, smoothing over and diving past the peaks of her shoulders. There is no return to peace for her, not when he's finally arrived, and the hour is late.

Even when his cloak is long-worn and he smells of the forest air and leaves, of the outside, and of the cold nights spent on watch.

It's a singular touch, one she misses often.

"You're back now," she whispers offhandedly.

"Yes, for now," he replies, covering her words with his feather-light lips. There's a sweetness in them, even in his breath that blows warm along her jawline before it melts into a light laugh.

For now.

She won't beg anything of him, but she won't turn him away from her, either.

His grip lingers by her hips, pulling her in suddenly as he leans against the archway. She holds in a gasp when the movement jolts her with something raw and crackling, a spark that bursts from toe to head. It spurs him on insatiably, and she lets him drink from her readily.

He enjoys the moment, enjoys their bodies pressed like petals in a book.

"I will go soon," she says, breaking the spell. He stops, but he does not release her, and she can already imagine the look he's giving her.

She opens her eyes slowly, utterly unsurprised by his sharply delving stare.

"What do you mean?"

She smirks, enjoying the seriousness of his tone.

"There is something I left, that I must go back for," she informs him softly, admiring the collar of his tunic. It must infuriate him when she is vague, she thinks.

Yet he deserves it.

After all, he has often been the master of such tactics in the past.

He is silent, unwilling to reveal his feelings. But he speaks nonetheless after a few beats.

"What do you want of me?"

"Want of you? I've never asked for anything. What makes you think I want for something?"

"Nothing then, nothing has made me feel that way. Forgive me," he said, turning away heavily and unclasping his hands from her. The contact leaves her bare as the wind flutters past her open back. She turns, her attention following him. He has left her but remains near and keeps his back to her.

"Are you suddenly angry with me?"

"Why should I be angry with anything you've said. You've merely reminded me that this has been a dream. One shared between us, but nothing more, nor can it be anything else. I've it on my mind for some time, often forgetting, but the truth was pulled from me because I think you know as well, that the things we share together… they are merely games."

"You were ever an eager player, were you not?"

"Yes, I was," he replies, turning his perspective so that she now sees the line of his profile; shapely, and lit by the glow of the passing moon.

"I did not mean to play games with you," she whispers, looking away from him to the knitting of her anxious fingers and darting to the expanse of the trees over the balcony.

"Nor did I. Dreamers are not always willing participants, as you well know," he said.

Her eyes fluttered back to his.

"Dreams and games aren't quite the same thing."

His gaze lingers away, caught between the arch of the balcony and a low hanging branch of a blossoming tree. She watches it, the little passage of thought behind his eyes, past his drawn brow that melded itself stiffly in the same manner as his lips. They seem still and bare, that is, without her own against them.

"Have I broken something between us?"

"No. As I said, you have reminded me," he says to her, looking back and leveling her with eyes coolly masking his once heat-stoked expression.

She wishes to remind him that he is _still_ merely playing a game and that they have never stopped. Not for once, most certainly not now.

"I will leave this place in a fortnight, do not let that time pass coldly, Haldir," she tells him, stepping closer. He softens, his stiff brow raised as he looks to the ground and his lips pout in timid resignation. Whether she leaves or stays, he knows that they can have something still… Whatever it might be.

* * *

The time will pass slowly that night and she will guide him in, and he will allow her to, for whatever choice was there?

He is less reserved, less kind, feasting greedily at this last supper set between them. They have danced between joining, edged closer and closer to the flame each night. They were not courting, no, at least not conventionally. They were hidden in the leaves and trees, a secret none have been able to uncover.

"This is not a dream, nor is it a figment of one. Have this moment with me, and do not be afraid to keep it with you. Does it make you feel silly, is that it?"

"No, I do not feel silly," says Haldir. "But now I will say that I do feel some sadness."

"Don't feel anything, my cherished one. Do not linger on anything but this still night and the warmth of my skin on your fair hands, do you not enjoy it?"

"Of course," says Haldir, dipping into the space of her neck, peppering light kisses and she realizes it is a stark change in his mood just moments before. He left the table with reserve, yet he always returns readily.

Low, in the deepest part of her thoughts she wonders if he will taste deeper. On the edge they always played. On the edge they've always taken each other, both being controlled enough to not stray too far. But at their certain coming parting, how can he not join himself to her? How can she live without the memory of him taking her into the flames?

She is stronger, braver. His attentions were not weak, but they have always come to a point that led him to circle back around and leave her waters still before the dawn came, his own thirst unquenched.

"Don't let me believe you would not have me," she tells him tenderly. Her voice is light and still as the moonlight illuminating them, but it is full of strong meaning and direct intent. He, of course, does not resist her, nor does he pull himself away, letting her pull him by the hip and collar away from the balcony, to the darkness and intimacy of her sleeping chamber.

The door is shut and there is no need to keep it open or check the lock either. Her talan is far from the city, living solitary and they are both quite alone there together.

She pulls away his cloak, stripping him of his status as she drops it to the swept floor. Easily, she unclasps his belt, loosens his strings and casts aside his coverings. Lifting his tunic over the ripe, chiseled expanse of his pale stomach and she can't fault herself for diving in. His breast beats warmly, his own sides firm and supple for grabbing. He himself chooses to rid his body of the last piece of cloth, joining it with the rest near his feet, glad he'd left his boots by the entryway when he came.

She savors him, raking over the dips and peaks visually while experiencing him by touch, too. His nudity is new, but not daunting. Instead of soft blushes, her face heats with desire. She doesn't miss the gulp he tries to mask, the almost erratic breath he strains to maintain. Her eyes drift low to his masculine pride and by the moon its tip glows like flushed marble. Her hands caress the hardened, quivering shaft. It is as stiff as the stone she imagines it to be, but there too is the skin soft and kissable.

In madness, she delights him with her mouth and lips.

His own mouth parts and his eyes draw closed, now fully intent as his body receives her with full receptiveness.

His flesh is sweet on her tongue, even sweeter when salt mingles naturally with it. He grasps her shoulders, trusting her, steadying himself so as not to move too forward or too back. He's teetering on her attentions, fearful that he might slip away. It's not unheard of, his mind blearily supplies, but never did he guess… And the flames they've danced nearer to at last singe him, for she pulls away and leers triumphantly at him as his finish is snatched away by him.

Perhaps it really is a game between them.

He huffs, struggling to control himself and she steps back, conveniently falling to the bed behind her as he rounds on her, his fully ripened tip raised high and aching as it jerks with inattention at his navel. She smiles, enticing him to take what he wants, whatever he wants. His knee is locked between her thighs, a rod of burning that pries her naturally open, a torrent of wet heat hidden behind the thinness of her pale gown.

In good, satisfying and joyful fashion he rips her dress from the middle, revealing her shuddering breasts to him, Unsatisfied he pulls the fabric further, the sound echoing loudly in the room. The chasm of dark softness between the mountains of her shaking, pale thighs is a small well of her flavor and wetness. He surprises her, gladly, diving in swiftly as he lowers, planting his knees on the floor and feasts upon the softness within. She didn't know, couldn't know the wholeness of his tongue as it beats her down into submission. She pours for him, a stream of want that he drinks gladly, exploring her entrance and the beaded mound he's longed to discover.

She prays to him, for he is a god, now humbling her between her legs. There is a salvation in his tasting, just as he found in her tasting of him just earlier.

She bends her body to him, half rising from the bed, straining her legs as currents and waves of his attention crash into her most gentle spots. Her hips jerk and rise as he lunges within her deeply, his fingers, too, play the part to explore her unstable passage. He presses the flesh within, rubbing, darting in and out, his lapping tongue hovering just above before lowering and not neglecting the tender outer petals of her lush entrance.

There is nothing in the world but _this_ feeling.

Cruel, a player like her, he lowers her down and abandons his libations to the cold empty air, but she's too strained and too wild to form words of complaint just yet before he surprises her again and the peak of his own want waits patiently at her entryway. She opens her eyes, blinking as she catches his smoldered eyes upon her, hooded and direct.

He's asking, wordlessly to continue. She nods to him, squeezing his thigh roughly. His sliding into her makes her eyes close and her mouth open slack, she hears her own sharp breath, as well as his as he tries to steady himself. He's filling the void, cleverly waiting, feeling her out for the first time in this way. His hands told him where she enjoys his pressure, as did her body's movements and the soft keens she'd let out.

He retreats slowly, guiding back in even slower. Like fitting a key into a lock. He goes in deeper, in and out, in and out, exploring her, fighting the urge to let himself go in just that moment and the vice grip of her opening around him is almost painful, almost too much, but he dares not lose himself or retreat, not unless she tells him to.

The tightness in her expression fades again, back into a silent, slackened gasp as he at last warrants the quickening of his pace within her. He drives in further with more determination, unclear of the end of it all. Too soon. Still too soon.

He nips at her neckline, ghosting over her collarbone, sucking and biting lower even when the terrain changes to the soft pillow of breast. He nips playfully, licks and lingers his face over the softness, diligent to not abandon his pace. Her legs open wider for him, lifting, gaining him more access and he's more pleased than he'd ever expect when she begins to beg for him, calling his name and huffing words intelligibly. He quickens, driving in harder than before, enjoying the raise in volume, but quick to silence her with his mouth and tongue.

The shadows have passed, and he will not relent, and she thinks they've been joined for a blissful eternity when he suddenly stops, painfully grasping her thighs and throwing her over. She doesn't understand, but she obliges, welcoming the cool air over her wet heat, until she feels bare and alone, but only briefly, as he dives in once again, and her expression melts. She moans low in her throat, certain she wants this every night and every night after when she's taken aback by the pull of sensation building swiftly, burning up, reaching higher and higher, unable to say anything but grunt and groan and she wants to sing, for her whole body is doing so, there is no weight, just the lightness of her soul and all thoughts and worries drifting away into complete and whole satisfaction.

She loosens under him, her face planted into the softness of her pillow, blearily realizing that he has not ceased. She wonders why he continues, for surely… he can join her in completion, too? He's still mounted to her, his thrusting slower, but even and intent, his own eyes shut as he bites his lower lip in concentration. He's lasting, holding on and his resolve kindles the heat once again. Slowly his eyes open and he leans over her back, reaching his hand under her to play at the blossoming peak once again and she grunts, surprised, pleasantly so, letting him engage further and not minding his attention there or from behind her.

"_Haldir_," she whimpers, breathless as he dives in again. He quickens before slowing.

He stills, remaining deep and hard inside her, one hand planted firmly on her hip to steady them both while the other rubs her, slapping shamefully at her remaining wetness. She won't fight the building of waves deep within her belly, nor the way he plays with her. He begins again, faster, building, plowing through, forcing her to her elbows as he drives in deeper and harder than before her first completion and she is almost shocked by the intensity.

Her toes curl and she shakes her head, disbelieving, thoughtless, as she hits her peak and then his name falls from her lips with a surprised, unhinged gasp, sweet to his keen ears. She can't stop, can't think, she is done for, burst at all her seams when she at last hears him lose his own composure, breathy grunts that make him detach and fall onto her, buckling her underneath him, yet he has the wits to shift his weight so as not to crush her. She's still rolling, trembling as spasms hit her and she's floating beside him, feeling and unfeeling. Existing and _not_.

She sleeps quiet, tempered, peaceful; both of them singularly spent.


End file.
